They went out together. What a stately dining-room! What carvings! What old china and lace on the board, under what soft, rich illumination! The Prieurs held the seats of honor. Chester was on the hostess's left. Mademoiselle sat between him and Mr. Smith. It would be pleasant to tell with what poise the youth and she dropped into conversation, each intensely mindful--intensely aware that the other was mindful--of that Conti Street corner, of Ovide's shop, and of "The Clock in the Sky," and both alike hungry to know how much each had been told about the other. Calmly they ignored all earlier encounter and entered into acquaintance on the common ground of the poetry of the narrow region of decay in which this lovely home lay hid "like a lost jewel." "Ah, not quite lost yet," the girl protested. "No," he conceded, "not while the poetry remains," and Smith, on her other hand, said: "Not while this cluster of shops beneath us is kept by those who now keep them." "My faith!" the hostess broke in, "to real souls 'tis they are the wonder--and the _poesie_--and the jewels! Ask Aline!" "Ask me," Chester said, as if for mademoiselle's rescue; "I discovered them only last week." "And then also," quietly said Aline, "ask me, for I did not discover them only last week." M. Prieur joining in enabled Chester to murmur: "May I ask you something?" "You need not. You would ask if I knew you had discovered them--M. Castanado and the rest." "And you would answer?" "That I knew they had discovered you." "Discovered, you mean, my spiritual substance?" "Yes, your spiritual substance. That's a capital expression, Mr. Chester, your 'spiritual substance.' I must add that to my English." "Your English is wonderfully correct. May I ask something else?" "I can answer without. Yes, I know where you're going to-morrow and for what; to read that old manuscript. Mr. Chester, that other story--of my _grand'mere_, 'Maud'; how did you like that?" "It left me in love with your _grand'mere_." "Notwithstanding she became what they used to call--you know the word." "Yes, 'nigger-stealer.' How did you ever add that to your English?" "My father _was_ one. Right here in Royal Street. Hotel St. Louis. Else he might never have married my--that's too long to tell here." "May I not hear it soon, at your home?" "Assuredly. Sooner or later. My aunts they are born raconteurs." "Oh! your aunts. Hem! Do you know? I had an uncle who once was your grandfather's sort of robber, though a Southerner born and bred." "Yes, Ovide's wife told me. Will you permit me a question?" "No," laughed Chester, "but I can answer it. Yes. Those four poor runaways to whom your sweet Maud showed the clock in the sky were the same four my uncle helped on--oh, you've not heard it, and it also is too long. I can lend you his 'Memorandum' if you'll have it."